mary russel fan fic
by hannah holmes
Summary: well, this is my first attempt at a mary russel / sherlock holmes fan fiction. Please r&r, constructive criticism welcome!


"Holmes

"Holmes?" 

I said sleepily, reaching out to his side of the bed. When there was no response I opened my bleary eyes and looked over. He must have got up before me. I snatched my glasses from the bedside table and sat in front of the mirror to unbraid my hair

It was a warm day in May, one of the hottest so far. The sweet smell of honeysuckle rose from the garden, and the sunlight poured into the room. It all left me with the distinct impression that spring was finally here. I had been living in Holmes' cottage since our marriage a few months ago, and had still not properly got used to the beautiful scenery that surrounded it. Though my cottage had been picturesque, I had never got much of a chance to appreciate it, as my bedroom had been the smallest and dingiest room, with no real view to speak of. 

I pulled on my dressing gown and padded downstairs into the kitchen. My husband was sitting at the table buttering a piece of toast. When I came in he looked up.

"Ah morning Russ. Isn't it a lovely day! It looks as if spring has made its belated entrance."

"Yes, better late than never," I replied, matching Holmes' excellent spirits "and as I have no pressing work, I think it would be a perfect day for a walk across the Downs."

"I quite agree," He paused then smiled, "We can go after breakfast" He continued buttering his toast. I sat down and poured a cup of coffee.

We hadn't been for a walk in months. It had been a cruelly cold spring, and Holmes' rheumatism (which only seemed to bother him when he wanted it to) played up in bad weather.

I was just rising to get dressed when Mrs. Hudson came in

"Good morning Mary." She said, and then turned her attention to Holmes "Here Mr.Holmes, there's your post." And placed 3 or 4 letters infront of him. He skimmed through them quickly and then called out, "Mrs.Hudson! There's one here for you, unless I'm mistaken it's from your son in Australia."

After she had bustled back in he turned his attention back to the other letters. The first two were bills, but the third was hand-written. He read it, and without comment, threw it over to me. It was from John Watson. 

'Dear Holmes and Mary,

I would not dream of being an inconvenience to either of you, but I have found myself in a rather disabled position and would be glad of some company. A few days ago I tripped on a street curb and broke my leg. I have prescribed myself 4 weeks of rest, and as, you must agree, it would be a little trying to entertain myself for that long, I would be grateful if you came to London for a few days. I have a comfortable spare room you can stay in. Please telephone me with a reply.

Yours,

J.Watson'

"We have to go Holmes," I said after reading it "I confess that London does not seem particularly appealing at this time of year, but we must go."

"Yes, I will reply now, and we can leave by the 11 O'clock train to Victoria."

As Holmes struggled with the connexions I dressed upstairs then set my mind to packing. I packed Holmes a case as well, and dragged them both downstairs. I found Holmes in the kitchen explaining to Mrs.Hudson that we would be away for a few days and that if she needed to contact us for any reason, to telephone Watson.

We had a carriage to ourselves on the train. Holmes and I used the opportunity to engage in a friendly debate about the origins of languages, a subject on which I admit to having little interest. The journey was a long and uncomfortable one, mainly due to the stuffiness of our carriage and the lack of refreshments.

When we arrived in London, a dusty heat enveloped us. It made me all the more uncomfortable, but I noticed in my husband a change as soon as we left the station. His lean frame became more relaxed and he seemed immediately to blend into the pulse of the city.

"You know Holmes," I remarked, half-joking "I have never seen you looking so at home in Sussex as you do whenever you enter this great seeming cesspool."

He thought for a moment and then said, "Yes. London will always be my home really. I know every street and alley. I know her as if she were my – erm – wife." He gave me a sheepish look after this bad choice of metaphor, then turned away to flag down a passing cab.


End file.
